One of the only bits of adventure that I have had during the pandemic was visiting the Glenbow. When the opportunity to go to the museum arose, I decided to go. Not only to get out of the house and do something, but also to document the experience. These are my Glenbow Museum Meditations, A Photography Essay.

The art hangs paintings that sing songs of familial hardship and joy. I wonder if this is because these walls hang the works of artists of the western world. I continue to walk through the exhibition halls, into a gallery dedicated to Indigenous art. I notice how the art in this room contains no date. The emphasis is on the work itself, rather than the origin of creation. I find this to be a metaphor for racialized cultures at large.

I look at Carol Wainio’s Unhappy Ending, art I believe to represent the dark side of the moon. How man makes one small step, fourteen back for everyone else. I notice my blood beginning to bubble like french fry grease. I remind myself of the bigger picture and move on.

In another part of the museum, I came across Marie Laindo’s Mediterranean Blue. The still waters deep inside this canvass calm me. I share this picture with everyone I know back in America who loves the color blue. For a moment, I forget the painting I last saw. I continue to capture my experience. My mind flows like the Bow River with creative inspiration.

As I travel along this path of painted emotions, I find another exhibit. I smile when I realise that this is a youth exhibit for Indigenous children. Instead of documenting every single piece, I put my pen and notepad in my pocket. I use this as an opportunity to calm my mind. In the art I find pain, but I also find happiness. The best part is that I can tell these artists created these pieces free from the constraints of academia. A system I participate in while understanding its downsides.

In the next room I enter a gallery that feels like a warm abyss of beauty. This room contains musical instruments and a homage to local musicians. My mind takes it all in, mesmerized in the moment. I remind myself that the people chosen for this opportunity are just a snapshot of how creatively deep cultures can go. I remind myself of all the artists who’s stories will never be told.

Should you dare to face the truth, the gallery mutes all the music you left behind. The exhibit is even named The Rise and Fall of Civilization by Kent Monkman. There is a painting titled The Forcible Transfer of Children. I begin to reflect on how terms like rise and fall fit the exact mood of all visitors. I meditate on how last time all of us were here, nobody could hide their emotions behind a mask. 

I also remember that the last time I was here, there were some people who would rush through this section of the museum. But this visit was different. Nobody rushed through. This time, behind the masks everyone was silent in reflection. Some of us are going out for recreation for the first time in a long time. Others have gone out, but still much less than usual. Maybe that is why the atmosphere is solemn.

I now must take a break from the writing, because my hand is beginning to ache like the hearts in the museum. By silencing my mind, I am choosing to be present and treasure the rest of the experience. I do not know when I will be at the Glenbow again, as it is closing soon for maintenance. I find this to be bittersweet. I wonder when I will be here, or any museum for that matter again.